


the ocean's cold spray and a warm embrace

by nefertiti



Series: different roads sometimes lead to the same castle [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Consensual Underage Sex, Cousin Incest, F/M, First Time, Incest, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-10-31 07:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10894167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefertiti/pseuds/nefertiti
Summary: The war is over and while Westeros has settled into a fractured peace, Jon Targaryen, once Jon Snow, has to learn a different way of ruling in the ancestral seat of his Valyrian ancestors along with his new bride as he struggles to embrace a different life, a different name and a different home.





	1. Year One

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the previous fics: I'd suggest reading them to follow along with this one
> 
> If you're following me from the previous fic: Each chapter will span a year and I'm only focusing on their time in Dragonstone

**i.**

**It** was a moonless night. Heavy rain poured from the skies; the wind blew cold and the thunder screamed as water beat itself against stone. A storm.  _How fitting,_ thought Jon. Grey clouds and gloomy skies suited the atmosphere of Dragonstone; the dark and grim castle. People said there was sorcery built into the walls from the dragons of old. His ancestors. He could have believed it. Jon had settled into the castle for nigh six turns and he could feel something thrumming beneath these walls.

Castle and man; in some strange way, one fit the other. Both ancient and broken from war and neither free from sorcery. Jon and Ghost were even more intertwined than before. Under the tutelage of Arya he learned how to control his own wild. She had learned from Bran and Jon from her. Some days it felt as if he breathed in and Ghost breathed out. Arya joked that he was as much wolf as he was man. Not that she was any different. She was more a wolf than he in many ways. He often wondered how much of the woman she showed to the world was just another sort of wolf, only with her claws sheathed.

Wolf or no, while Jon did not think that running a castle with Arya would be difficult neither did he expect it to be this easy. Jon had always thought highly of her and she did not disappoint him. 

The girl he once called little sister was stubborn and wilful, that much had not changed; yet it had tempered. It had calmed into something that was no longer innocent or childish. Rash as she was, she had learned caution somewhere along the way. She still burned hot and cold with little to no warning but just as she had shown great resolve and wit when commanding her wolves in battle, she had proven more than capable of running a castle.  

Two days past a raper was dragged to the dungeons, bound by his hands and feet to await the Queen’s Justice. It was said that he raped a girl of one and four and her sister three years older and cut their throats. Arya had been down in the dungeons with the prisoner tonight since after they had supped.

He wondered if she was still there. She usually sought his company after questioning prisoners. It was a queer task for a highborn lady of one and three, a princess, but it was a duty she insisted upon. She dismissed the gaolers that Jon had approved of and despite the disapproval of their southern lords and ladies, she oversaw the dungeons. He saw her at it the first few times. She did not try to hurt them no matter their crime. The dungeons were dark and cold but she made certain the prisoners were fed and watered and garbed warmly. She would even give them a horn of watered ale to drink before questioning them. He still did not understand how she got them to talk but she always did.

Their father had always said that the man who passed the judgement should swing the sword and Arya used Dark Sister to bring forth the Queen’s Justice. 

Afterwards she would crawl into bed next to him and silently huddle into his side. She never said a word on those nights. Jon would just wrap his arms around her until the muscles in her body relaxed.

So it was strange that she was not here when the questioning should be over by now.

He climbed out of bed and went in search of her. He did not bother asking the servants of her whereabouts. They were rarely known to them unless she wanted them to be. Her blacksmith would be in the armoury but she only bothered him in the day. It was when he saw Edric Dayne coming from the entrance to the Keep that he found someone who might know.

The Dayne knight was sworn to guard them both and though they eschewed his escort more oft than not, he seemed to always know where they were. 

The boy bowed when he saw Jon, his white cloak dipping with him.

“Where is the princess?” Jon asked of him.

A blush darkened the knight’s cheeks and he said, “She’s in the gardens my lord.”

“In this weather?” Jon asked, perplexed. “And you left her out there? She is your lady, your princess. She could catch a chill in this rain.”

“Forgive me my lord.” Ser Edric said blithely. “But Princess Arya does not often respond to requests she does not wish to fulfil.”

No. She really did not. Jon grunted his displeasure and dismissed him with the wave of his hand.

He strode past the Dragon’s Tail out into the open gardens and there she was.

Arya was standing in the blistering rain with her dark hair plastered against her skin. Jon cursed lowly. She was wearing nothing but a thin shift that had grown sheer from the downpour. Her body was visible if you looked hard enough and the dusky pink peaks of her nipples printed through her shift. The fact that Ser Edric – anyone really – saw her in this state... 

Most days he believed she did things like this for the sole purpose of tempting him. He wanted to wait until she was older to bed her and she was displeased about it. He still tormented himself with thoughts of their wedding night. His hands tight around her waist, his tongue tracing the curve of her neck, her hand snaking down his breeches in an attempt to grab his cock. Jon had almost let her that night but he did not think he would have been able to live with himself if he did. She was much too young. A girl in some ways. His mother had been half a child, half a woman when she birthed him, when she died on her birthing bed. If Arya was so much like her as everyone said, like the bold and wild Lyanna Stark then ... no, they would have to wait.

Explaining that to her turned out to have been a futile effort. When Arya wanted something nothing anyone said could turn her mind from it. She rarely slept in her own chambers, always wore the thinnest of shifts to bed and draped her legs over him while she slept. Just the thought of the nights she spent grazing her hand down his arm and breathing hot on his neck was enough to rouse him. And seeing her stood in the rain with white cloth clinging to her did not help in the slightest.

If tempting him wasn’t her aim then rousing him to jealousy was surely it. It was bad enough that her smith friend lived and breathed within the walls of this castle but his aunt insisted that bloody Edric Dayne be his personal guard. As if he hadn’t enough problems with men staring at his wife. And Arya – it was either that she did not notice or she was doing it on purpose; and he could not tell which. 

Damn her! The wilful creature. Jon wondered if she knew how difficult this was for him.

Jon shrugged out of his woollen robe as he approached her and threw it over her shoulders without a word. 

Arya looked at him and smiled a smile as lovely as dawn. “You’re wet,” she said quietly. 

_Yes, and dragonfire burns and Tyrion Lannister is short._

“As are you.” Jon replied, a bit incredulous. It could hardly have escaped her notice.

Arya stepped towards him and only then did he notice a spot of summerwine on the curve of her neck but it was gone before he could tell whether he’d truly seen it. Blood. She must have deemed the man guilty, though she would usually wait for an audience of guardsmen and a reaffirmation of guilt before she performed an execution. 

When he looked into the dark pools of her grey eyes they were blank, almost dead. 

She stepped closer to him, pressed her cold, chapped lips to his and Jon felt a shiver run down his spine though whether it was because of the rain or her kiss he couldn’t tell. 

His hand came to the back of her neck and he drew her deeper into the kiss. Jon wrapped his other hand around her waist and pulled her closer to him. Arya made a muffled moan and he felt it low in his belly. Holding her like this he just wanted to take and take. But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Jon wrenched away from their embrace with a gasp.

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Arya’s eyes were wide and her chest heaved. He tried not to look downwards.

“We should go inside.” Jon’s voice was strained. “It’s ... cold out,” he finished lamely.

Her eyes grew sly, life returning to them, and she responded. “Yes I think we should go inside and get warm.”

Jon's will was steel but her heat was causing it to slowly bend.

**ii.**

The night before there was a feast to welcome them back home. He and Arya spent three weeks in King’s Landing assisting his aunt but now they were back. The attendance at the feast was scarce and it was noted.

There were excuses of course. Lord Celtigar had taken ill, Lord Sunglass was told too late, the journey was too far for Lord Velaryon. All lies Arya claimed. His lady wife was more adept at seeing through southron sophistries with a discerning eye than he but even Jon could see that it was all falsehoods. Lord Davos and his wife came and his children. Lord Davos cared little for the whims of “highborn fools” as he called them. Knights and lesser houses also made their attendance, even Lord Bar Emmon came and for that Jon was grateful. 

Ghost pawed at the door to his solar and gave what Jon would imagine to be a withering look were he a man. 

Nymeria was out hunting and he wanted to eat too. They had returned from King’s Landing only two days ago but Ghost preferred the rough, grass strewn woods of Dragonstone to the city where he was limited, though not for lack of game. 

Wolves adapt to most any environment and his white wolf seemed to enjoy it when people run scared at the sight of him but Daenerys asked him and Arya to keep their direwolves on tight leashes. Dealing with the disgruntled smallfolk took up so much of her time since the war, not to mention the rebuilding, negotiations and alliances she had to deal with. Directly from her lips she said, _I control my beasts and you two will control yours._ Daenerys did not want more trouble than she already had. 

Jon sent him an apologetic look and rose to open the door. Ghost ran out of his solar without giving him a single glance. Jon was antsy himself. Maester Pylos, the castle’s maester, had bombarded him with parchments to read and sign, letters from his bannermen and appeals from his people. Stannis had left them undefended during the war and much of the island needed to be rebuilt. Farmers quarrelled about their burnt lands, whores asked him how they would earn any coin after Stannis made their trade unlawful, lords needed coin as much as the whores, masons needed coin to do their rebuilding. 

He slept better at nights than he had in a long time though and while it did not ease his pervasive tiredness it was better than before. The bruises beneath his eyes and the way his bones dragged as if weighed down with stones did not often receive his notice but today it did. His eyes burned from all the reading and he wondered if this was the day he would pass out and sleep until winter. 

Arya had gone to the godswood. She and Maester Pylos had seen to rejuvenating the burnt soil of the godswood since they came to this place. They had done a good job. A good enough job that Bran had gotten a weirwood sapling from the time he spent on the Isle of Faces after the war, learning from the greenmen, and was able to plant it next to the grey waters when he briefly visited on his way back to Winterfell. He had sworn to come and carve a face into the tree when it had grown. If it even grew.

Arya seemed confident that it would. Jon had his doubts.

“Have faith Jon Snow,” Arya said to him when he asked. “It does not do to live without hope.” 

**iii.**

Gilly missed Sam. Jon missed his friend too. Sam had written him days past to say that his chain would be completed by harvest. Jon believed him. He had never met anyone half as smart as Sam other than Tyrion Lannister. Still, Gilly was lonely.

In Winterfell Sam had told Jon that he was returning to the Citadel to be a maester in truth. He had begged Jon to let Gilly and little Sam come to Dragonstone and live under his protection. The damnable man had tried to use guilt to convince Jon that he had wronged Gilly once before and should not do so again. It did not work in the way Sam had hoped. Jon made a hard choice in sending the wildling girl away with Dalla's boy instead of her own but there was no other option then and now she had her son once more. _I have no reason to feel any guilt_ , he told himself. 

He agreed to bring Gilly to Dragonstone to be a handmaiden to his lady wife. A decision that would earn him no favours from his few lords but it was not so big a price and it stopped Sam from giving him wounded looks every time he saw him. Jon had already requested that Sam be sent to Dragonstone to assist Maester Pylos when the last link in his chain is forged. That should have been the end of that.

It was Arya who put the thought in his mind. She kept asking him what it was like at Craster's Keep and how many sisters and nieces and aunts and cousins Gilly had, whether or not he thought she missed them, whether or not he thought she missed Sam. He could not see why he did not notice it before. 

Arya noticed these sort of things. 

Some thought her to be cold upon first meeting her. _Winter’s true princess_ , he’d heard her called their first time in the capital, _cold and unforgiving_. Jon did not blame her for being chilly to the sister of Tywin Lannister and the son of Walder Frey who both, for a time, sat in her uncle’s seat, happily usurping Tully rule. In any case she was adored by their household at Dragonstone, servants, cupbearers, pages and cooks, the kennelmaster and guardsmen, even by their septon who liked little and their master of horse who liked none at all but the horses. 

She took Gilly and her other handmaidens with her when she visited the fishing villages and talked to the fishermen about the sea and their catches and chatted with their wives and daughters, or pinched the cheeks of the babes of farmers, or called on sea merchants for silk and leathers and velvets and jewels. 

Arya went out of her way to make herself beloved by the smallfolk which reduced, though did not erase, some of the fear they felt towards her. If she were any other lady and he knew her less, he might have wondered whether or not it was a ruse –  artifice, but this was Arya and he knew her inside out. She was always this way. He never remembered a time when she ever lacked for friends. 

The only problem was that she had no true friends of noble birth. She was nice enough to visiting lords and ladies but not overly warm. _The southron nobility like to be flattered and praised,_ Maester Pylos warned him, _and neither you nor your lady wife spare too many false words._ Pylos put it down to northern chilliness and mayhaps it was serving Stannis or his own solemn nature but the maester didn’t seem to mind yet he reminded Jon that it would win them no love among his bannermen, sparse as they were. 

It was another complaint he added to the long lost of misjudgements he’d made thus far as the Prince of this desolate rock.

Jon told Arya of the maester's words as they supped and she looked at him thoughtfully. 

“He is not wrong,” she said, quietly. “We can survive their disapproval but it would be better if they liked us at the very least.”

His father was well loved by his people, his bannermen and the commons alike. But Jon was not Lord Eddard and this was not the North. The things these southerners valued was strange to him. Tourneys and singers and undeserved praise. But Jon knew what came when you displeased those that you command and he would not let it happen again.

**iv.**

The envoy from Braavos was finally on his way back to the secret city. _And may the Titan eat him whole,_ Jon prayed. He proved to be a haggler most difficult to negotiate with. Arya had stayed on his last day during the long back and forth between them. It was only when she started talking in the garbled tongue of Braavos did the banker seem at all fussed. Jon did not know what was said between them but the banker left with the promise that the Iron Bank will wait another year for them to pay their debt. 

The sea was the only strength Dragonstone could defend itself with. Jon had commandeered ships from his lords for that purpose, turning his face to stone as they grumbled and complained, but many more needed to be built and all Jon had dealt with since coming to the castle was complaints. Even after putting his seal to the fiat undoing Stannis’ law, whores in the street grumbled that the few men who remembered the old rule were reluctant to come to them. Stonemasons and shipbuilders claimed they were overworked,  Farmers were the only ones who did not complain. Arya had seen to sending men to refresh the earth the same way it was done on their godswood. The soil on the isle was rich and supple, ripe for planting. Their animals were easily fed. Would that everyone else complained less about things that could be helped with hard work.

As they walked out of the dragon’s mouth, Arya seemed bothered in a way that he had never seen before. Her stride was quick and the set of her mouth was grim; her hard, grey eyes appeared as though they could bore holes through iron. That should not have appealed to him but for a reason he could not say, it did.

“Valar Morghulis?” Jon asked, fairly certain that he made a mess of the words that slid so easily off Arya’s tongue. Those were the words she had said to the banker that caused him to turn white. He had heard them before but he knew not what they meant. 

Arya’s lips quirked upwards in something that was half a smile yet not. “All men must die,” she said after a moment's silence. 

Jon looked at her, startled. 

“Don’t look at me like that. That’s what it means. Valar Morghulis; all men must die.”

Jon did not know how to respond to that. Did she issue a threat to the banker? Or a warning?

“Spar with me?” she asked, filling the silence.

Jon gave her a curious look. Even after fighting in battle before, more than a few times, they had never crossed swords in practice. Jon trained with Edric Dayne when he had the time and Arya trained by herself. He wondered at the change. 

“With tourney swords.” Arya said at his hesitance. “I won’t hurt you _too_ bad.”

The yard was nearly empty when they came each bearing a blunted edge sword. The cooks were preparing supper, the servants were stoking fires and setting tables for supper, the stableboys were watering the horses. Only the guards lingered. 

Arya lifted her sword and held still, daring him to attack first. He lunged and she quickly stepped out of his way. 

He ducked when she swung her sword in his direction and she spun out of the way each time he thrust. 

That was her way, he noticed. Water dancing, she called it. She danced and spun and dodged his every thrust. 

Their swords clanged and soon enough sweat dripped from his forehead. Arya did not huff or puff like he did, she kept her eyes narrowed and caught each blow with deft strokes. 

He felt himself getting winded and he feinted left and caught her underhand sending her sword flying from her hands. A dirty trick he had learned from Theon Greyjoy once in a different life.

“You could have at least made this a little hard.” Jon grinned, though his words were undercut by heavy breathing. 

Arya huffed and went to retrieve her sword. “You should have a drink of water. You’re all red from the exertion.”

“Big words from a tiny girl,” Jon said.

Her sword caught him between the legs and he stumbled before falling to his knees. It wasn’t any sort of pain worth talking about but he shot her a glare anyway.

“Don’t gloat,” she sang out, though she said it quite smugly herself.

Arya moved to lean against the stone wall and Jon joined her after rising to his feet. He remembered a day like this, so long ago when Arya was his little sister and she boasted of near beating Bran in a game of stick swords. So much had changed since then. He was curious to know how much more would change from now on. 


	2. Year Two

**v.**

A wrinkled man with dirty, grey hair and a scraggly beard stood before him, shifting nervously with a bundle laid before him on the floor. His clothes were more rags than anything else and he stunk of soil and sweat. He was waiting to speak to the Prince of Dragonstone. Sam had suggested that Jon take one day every week to listen to complaints and requests from his people so Jon had spent all morning lending his ear to plights. Today was a tedious one and he felt that if he were to hear any more his ears might fall off. 

“What business have you?” Jon asked. 

“Was a grievous thing m'lord,” his eyes darted to the white direwolf sitting at Jon's feet. “All my goats with their throats ripped out, and the grey one – the big wolf, was the one that done it.”

Jon looked at the man unwaveringly. “A direwolf ate all your goats? Only your goats? While leaving your cows and sheep free to continue grazing?” 

“Aye m'lord,” the man nodded. 

The old man was vehement enough to give Jon some pause but not enough for Jon to believe his tale. 

Though it was true that her wolves were growing unruly Arya controlled Nymeria well enough. There were near sixty of the wolves roaming the island troubling farmers and hunters alike but they hunted in pack form. It would be unusual for a stray wolf to attack. 

The man lied. 

It would not be the first time one of his people complained of losing livestock to her pack but neither would it be the first time someone lied to get free game. 

“How many did you lose?” asked Sam who was standing beside Jon's high seat.

“Three goats. Big fat ones,” the man licked spittle from his lips. 

Jon very much doubted that. There could not have been much meat on his goats. The bloody bones he had presented were weak – narrow and stunted. 

“We’ll see you reimbursed then,” Jon said. 

The man bowed gratefully before gathering his evidence and leaving the tower. 

“That’s all for the day,” Sam said. 

Jon sighed with some relief. He and Sam made to leave the hall with Ghost padding behind them as Sam chattered on about Gilly and Little Sam and Maester Pylos. 

Jon did not know the state of Sam’s relationship with Gilly. He did not know if they shared a bed or not and part of him did not wish to know. Sam’s vows were his to keep. 

It was easier to think on Sam’s friendship with the castle’s other maester. They got on well to which Jon was grateful. He did not want Sam to resent working under Maester Pylos nor did he was Maester Pylos to be wroth about Jon bringing someone else to work alongside him. He need not have ever worried. They both knew far more of their histories than any man ought and was fond of sprouting it off one another. A queer game but Tyrion Lannister had told him once that the mind must be sharpened as often as a blade. Perhaps they were each other’s whetstone. 

“The tree is making Princess Arya rather happy,” Sam said after a while.

“The tree?” Jon asked. 

“The weirwood,” Sam explained. “The sapling has grown some.”

Jon was astounded. He had not at all expected that. After five moons when the tree did not grow Jon had said that it most like would not grow at all. Arya had warned him not to lose faith. Clearly she was right. 

He bid Sam's leave and went to the godswood to see with his own eyes. There he found Arya sitting, cross legged, in front of a small sapling which indeed looked bigger. 

“I told you it would grow,” she said without turning around. 

“Indeed you did,” he settled next to her in the grass. 

She shoved at him and grinned, reminding him of the girl he had known once at Winterfell. He only just remembered the first time he saw her and truly knew that he loved her. She had kissed him as a babe. She slobbered all over his face and let out some choked out laughter; it was then he had known he would do anything for her, to make her smile, to ensure her well-being. That had not changed. Sister. Cousin. Wife. Sometimes he wondered which she truly was to him or whether she was all of them at once. He only knew that he now held a new kind of love for her – a new kind of love, along with the same.

Ghost nudged his way in between them causing Jon to smile. The wolf dipped his head so that Jon could scratch behind his ear

“I’ve had more complaints of your wolves,” he said after a moment’s silence. “A man claimed Nymeria ate his goats.”

“He lied,” she simply said.

Jon had already guessed at that but still he asked, “How do you know that? You were not there.”

“I have ways of knowing things,” she replied. 

That was true. Arya spent a lot of time with farmers and fishers and merchants. She was also pleasant to whores and freeriders and others of their sort. Many of them had loose lips, even when speaking to a princess.

“Besides,” she continued. “You made the right decision. Even I cannot truly prove Nymeria’s innocence without revelations about myself that should only be guessed at and I will not lock her away so what you’re left with is recompense.”

Jon looked at her with some exasperation. 

“Every petitioner is not a liar. You need to control her pack or I’ll have no choice _but_ to lock them away ... or put them to the sword.”

Her eyes turned to steel and she sprang to her feet, “They’re Nymeria’s pack – her _family_! You can’t kill them.”

“You’ll have to stop them from feasting on other people’s livestock else I will have little choice in the matter.” 

“I’ll – I’ll find a way to stop them but you can’t just,” she closed her eyes and when she reopened them the storm had cleared leaving a clear grey, “I will deal with them.”

She strode out of the godswood leaving him alone with his direwolf in front of the newly growing weirwood. It would be a place fit to worship in soon. Neither Jon or Arya made much use of the castle’s sept. Daenerys kept reminding him to let the crownlanders believe he had adopted the Faith of the Seven as well as keeping his old gods. _House Targaryen have kept the faith for hundreds of years,_ she had written to him. _It would do to remind people of that._

His Targaryen father had probably prayed in the sept here. To accept the faith would be for Jon to follow his father’s lead in a way and he could not bring himself to do so. It would ring false. Jon was Rhaegar Targaryen's seed but he was never his son. His true father rested in the crypts beneath the walls of Winterfell along with the bones of the old Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell ... and his mother. From the tales he'd heard of her, Jon could not imagine Lady Lyanna kneeling before a statue and lighting a candle to please anyone. 

And as strong willed as she was, he could not foresee Arya submitting to gods she did not hold either. 

She was angry with him, his lady wife, but there was some fear beneath that anger. Jon could see it yet he did not know why. He had known her his entire life but those few years they had been separated had birthed things in her he did not understand. She had fears about things that she would not explain. Jon, who had once known her like the tune of a well remembered song, often found in her verses and swells of music that were new to him. 

**vi.**

Sansa was newly pregnant they’d found out. She had written a letter to Arya two weeks after his name day telling her the joyous news and Arya had written her congratulations to their sister, but of course his lady wife had been chilly with him ever since.  

Jon knew she would be the moment he read the letter. Arya would not be described as _dutiful_ by most but she knew what was expected of her. The day of their wedding Tyrion had been adamant that they consummate their marriage and he was certain that his aunt would have had a similar talk with Arya. It was in part why he was able to resist lying with her. Jon had only ever been with one woman and it had never been without passion. He could not deny the heat he felt with Arya in his arms but he had never known a woman for the sake of duty. 

Lord Tyrion had written him later. The letter he held in front of him contained subtle hints that Jon ought to be following in Tyrion's direction. Had he received this letter earlier in the day he would have been annoyed but it was late. Jon's eyes were heavy and the parchment in front of him blurred before his eyes. 

 _I need to sleep,_ thought Jon as he stood from his desk.

Arya was already in bed. A part of him was grateful that she slept. He was used to her fits of rage and sullenness as a child but they were never this cold and never directed towards him. For the first time, he did not know how to temper it. 

As he climbed into bed next to her, he saw that she was not as asleep as he thought. The moment his head touched the pillow, dark eyelashes fluttered against pale skin and soon enough her grey eyes were boring into his.

“I thought you would never come to bed,” she whispered. “Have I truly been so bad?”

“Not bad,” he responded lowly. “Just icy.”

“I’m not angry with you!” she protested, scoffing as Jon looked at her dubiously. “I just ... don’t like failing people.”

“Who have you failed?” asked Jon. 

But even without her saying, he knew she meant Daenerys. 

Arya did not fail the queen and he was sure Her Grace knew it. Arya had fought as valiantly as he in battle. He remembered her wolves savaging crimson clad soldiers as they marched on King's Landing – he with his flaming sword and Daenerys with her dragons, it was battle after battle before they even made it to the capital. 

The Kingslayer knew underhanded strategy. He had sent soldiers to ambush them at Riverrun after they ousted the Lannister men guarding the near empty castle. Without the wolves and the dragons they would have lost many more men and would have been outnumbered by the time they faced their foes in King’s Landing. 

He and Arya were both covered, head to toe in blood and filth by the time they stormed the city.

When they had come into the Throne Room they saw the mottled purple face of Cersei Lannister laying on the foot of the Iron Throne, a small dagger at her fingertips and her twin brother at her side; a deep gash on his neck with blood still spurting from the wound. Perhaps they had killed each other before the dragon queen could have them burned or perhaps they destroyed each other because of whatever black, ugly love they held for one another. Either way Queen Daenerys Targaryen walked over them to take her rightful seat on the throne. 

Arya was as pivotal to their success as any other commander.

“I haven’t given you an heir. Or the Seven Kingdoms a future king,” she said, glumly. “... or queen.”

Jon exhaled through his nose. He wrapped his arm around her pulling her into him. 

“You have not failed anyone.” Jon said, resolute. “Daenerys will get her heir one day but until then she still has much to thank you for.”

Arya’s fingers toyed with his tunic and pulled at the strings. She was not one for fidgeting and it made Jon wonder what else was bothering her. He kept silent and let her find her words.

“Is it stupid that I wish I had gotten pregnant before Sansa?” she asked, quietly. “I don’t feel a sapling overshadowed by a large tree with her anymore but people will talk. If I wasn’t ... if there wasn’t so much at stake I may not have cared. But there is. And I do.”

There was not much that Jon could truly say. He could not deny that there would be talk. His aunt had no children of her womb and from what Arya had told him, she may never. Many eyes would be set on Arya’s belly, waiting for it to swell. Jon the Seedless they will call him if it went any longer without a child inside her but vitriol was nothing new to him. Or to Arya. 

“It will happen in time little wolf.” Jon said, soothingly. 

(He used to stumble over calling Arya “little sister”. Little wolf was easier. She liked it as he knew she would.)

He felt her smile into his chest, “I believe you.”

**vii.**

Sam and his steward, Arthur Peyle, had been going over the payment of the household staff with him most of the evening. The sun was low in the sky when Jon went to change into his leathers. He wanted to get in some training in before supper.

He was brought to an abrupt halt in the doorway to his bedchamber when he saw his lady wife laying on the bed propped up on an elbow, naked. Uncovered but for her thick, brown hair, loose and falling over her breasts.

His eyes trailed over her body, pausing on the dark hair covering her mound, on the taper of her waist and the flare of her hips, on her magnolia-white skin and the dust of pink covering her cheeks.

Jon could still see the pink peaks of her nipples through strands of brown hair and as she straightened and kneeled he got an even better view. The globes of her breasts were small enough to fit in the palms of his hands. Said hands twitched in her direction and that shook him out of his stupor.

“Arya ... what are you doing?!” he exclaimed, unable to tear his eyes away from her. 

“It is only two moons to last solstice,” Arya said calm as ever. “We should start planting seeds now.”

Arya inched towards him; taking him unawares, she took his hand and pulled him onto the featherbed, letting him fall flat on his back and straddling him in one easy move.

She stroked her finger across his cheek and down his jaw; Jon wondered how much of this was about duty and how much of it was about pleasure. Duty was not very much on his mind. All thoughts of resistance had fled his mind. His hands came up to her hips and she smiled complacently. 

“Will you sheathe your sword?” There was some mischief in her smile at her own words. 

Despite her confidence with this ploy she was hesitant as she bent forward to kiss him as if she feared he might push her away.

If so then she had far too high an esteem of his willpower. Jon’s hand tangled in her hair as he deepened their kiss. He only pulled away so that Arya could wrestle his overcoat and tunic off.

“Are you sure about this Arya?” he asked when he was bare-chested. 

She nodded. That was the response Jon had hoped for. He grabbed her thighs and flipped her on her back. Her hair was splayed out on the bed and she gazed up at him with large, grey eyes. He kissed the curve of her neck and made his way down her body. Her skin was littered with small scars and there was the deep scar on her left breast. 

He traced her scars with her fingers and then with his tongue. His manhood was stiff and he fisted it in his hand, hoping to stave off his pleasure. 

Jon kissed her open mouthed on her mound and then lower. She groaned as he slipped a finger inside her. _She is still a maiden_ , he reminded himself as she tightened around his finger. When he added another finger inside her, she clamped her thighs around his face and loud, breathless moans broke from her lips as he continued tracing patterns with his tongue. 

Soon enough Arya was shuddering below him and then tugging at his hair.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rose to see her staring down at him in wonder. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth and he throbbed with want. He fumbled to unlace his breeches, tugging them off and throwing it to the side of the bed.

No words were needed as he rose to kiss her jaw. He settled between her legs and her thighs came up to cradle his hips. He positioned himself at her entrance, sliding his manhood into her impossible tightness. It took everything in him not to spill inside her, ending this before they even started. 

Jon saw the briefest flicker of pain in her eyes as he pushed past her maidenhead. He tried to move slowly but before long he could not help himself. The soft whimpers from her lips as she clutched at his back drove him to thrust harder into her slick heat. He lifted the underside of her knee driving deeper into her, barely even noticing as she dragged her fingers down his back.

He buried his face in her neck, losing himself in the grunts and moans and heavy breathing, in the sounds of their flesh slapping together and the sweet sensation of his manhood sliding in and out of her tight core.

There was a tightening in his lower abdomen as he drove into her. Their bodies dripping with sweat, Arya dug her heels into the small of his back, the sounds leaving her mouth growing louder and louder. She tightened around him and he spent himself inside her. 

“That was incredible!” said Arya, breathlessly. 

Jon smiled. He rolled off of her. 

“We – can we do that again?” she looked at him with wide eyes.

He had her thrice more that night before they fell into deep slumber.

His back felt as though it were ablaze when he woke. Arya had clawed at his back last night like a true she wolf. He did not notice it then but now he felt as though she may have drawn blood. 

Jon did not feel much guilt last night. His mind was too consumed with the wet heat and the lovely sensations he felt as he thrust into Arya with wild abandon. He only meant to have her once but he could not help himself from taking her again and again. And now that the night had cleared into dawn and the sun was now upon him, everything last night that was wild and lustful and pleasurable now felt wrong. He had let his own desire make him a weaker man and he cursed himself for it. And yet ... the thought of Arya beneath him last night and the soft moans that left her mouth – he did not know how he was supposed to stop himself from having her again. 

Arya was still abed so he broke his fast on his own and then he searched out Sam.

Since then he had been reading letters from his bannermen. He knew there was a reason they had finally saw the use in visiting the dark castle of his ancestors, smiling and feasting with him. Pirates were roaming the waters of Dragonstone once more. One ship had taken off with most of the silver in one of Lord Celtigar's stores and another with the niece of Lord Velaryon. Jon would have to do something about it soon if he did not want the island overrun. 

His thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt when a chalice of water and herbs was dumped over his head. Jon wished he was surprised. 

“Why was there moon tea at my bedside?” her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. To anyone else it might have sounded menacing but Jon had never been able to be afraid of her. 

Jon looked upon his incensed wife and sighed. He was waiting for this battle. He wiped the potion from his eyes and waited for her to start.

“I will not drink it! I won’t!” she said, bold as a wolverine. 

Jon looked at Arya with her short stature and her slender form. True her hips were flared out but she was still a tiny thing. He wished that it did not worry him but it did. 

“I will not force it down your throat but I – Arya will you just try to be reasonable?”  Jon ground his teeth together. 

“You’re the one being unreasonable Jon,” she pointed her finger at him. 

“My mother went to her grave after birthing me,” Jon bit out. “Do you wish to follow her there?”

“Aunt Lyanna bore you in grief and agony. Her father and brother were just killed, her lover was slain and a war had broken out in her name,” she threw the chalice against the wall. “That could fell even the strongest woman on her birthing bed.”

Arya in one of her rages needed to be dealt with carefully. Too firm a hand and she would do the opposite as you command but waver too much and she would find a way to slip past whatever you tell her, slippery as an eel. 

“And so can girlhood.” Jon replied ignoring the storm clouds brewing in her eyes. “You will not sway me in this. I won’t force the moon tea down your throat but I will not bed you again if you shan’t drink it.”

He did not truly know if he had such resolve and by her raised brow, neither did Arya.

“Is that not the same as forcing me to drink it?” she asked coolly. 

“Why do you insist on troubling me with this?” he asked plaintively. “It was thrice that I thought you lost to me. Must I suffer it a fourth time? Will you make a widower of me at twenty?”

Arya glared at him and he held her gaze until she sighed. She drew closer to him and sat on his lap. 

“I still think you’re wrong.” Arya said. “We could wait until I am twenty and I could still die. There are no way of knowing these things.”

“And I think you are wrong.” Jon replied. “My aunt will have to understand if we wait a year or two. There is naught wrong in being careful. There are things I will not sacrifice for the sake of the realm.” 

Jon did not know if it was true that Daenerys would accept his excuses but he would make Daenerys understand if he had to.

“Believe me, I do not want to stop touching you,” Jon ran his hand up her leg and stopped at the apex between her thighs. He slid his finger down her slit and she caught his wrist, stilling his movement. 

“I’m too sore for all that but ... I see no problem with asking Maester Tarly make to me a new batch of moon tea,” Arya said. 

That was a little too easy. Jon looked at her with narrowed eyes.

She glanced at him, a little abashed. “I still think I can do it. Don’t think that I don’t! But time would not be the worst thing.”

“So ... then what was this tantrum all about?”

Arya swatted him on the shoulder and grimaced as she started to pick some herbs from his hair and tossed it to the ground. “We can try to talk of these things Jon. I do not like it when you make decisions for me as though you see me as some child.”

Jon pulled her closer to him and she wrapped an arm around his neck in response. 

“I know you are no child little wolf.” Jon said and he hoped she would believe him as he continued. “But you cannot expect me to not always try to do what I think is best for you.”

“Jon,” Arya sighed. “I know you want what’s best for me. I don’t care what anyone else believes. It makes little sense for us be lady and master. I’m not the best at taking orders from you and you’re not the best at giving orders to me. Can we just try to be – well, partners I suppose.” 

Partners. Side by side. It sounded strange but doable. Preferable even. Arya was the sort of woman he knew was strong enough to rule at his side. She was not the sort of lady to just smile and nod and please. She was a warrior princess. Beautiful. Wild. Unyielding. She was much a leader as he. If there was any woman he could see as equal to himself it would be her.

“We can manage that I believe.” Jon said. 

“Good.” Arya said, kissing him lightly on his cheek. “That is what I hoped you would say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm late in updating. A mix of procrastination and being really busy IRL made it hard for me to update even today. Sorry for any mistakes. I didn't have enough to time to edit the way I usually do.
> 
> If you have any questions about Arya’s mindset throughout this chapter feel free to ask.


	3. Year Three

 

**viii**.

The heavy weight of darkness settled upon Jon as he woke and for the briefest of moments, he could not breathe. It was a sight that drew him straight back into the night terrors from which he’d awoken. The fear brought on by visions of ice, and fire, and blood, and dead things that killed coiled in his throat. He blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting. There was a dim light cast by the moon and the stars – not like the long night where the bright red and orange burn of dragonfire was all that lit the sky. Jon’s panic subsided. His hand had moved towards the dirk under his pillow but he let it drop to his side without grabbing the weapon.

He sat up in bed. Jon did not have these nightmares very often and for that he was grateful, yet the intensity of his dreams did not allow for any more sleep. He would usually talk to Arya the rare times he woke, sweaty and nervous from nightmares.

The empty space next to him was glaring. He was not fool enough to believe that sleeping beside his wife was what kept his dreams peaceful but they never slept apart. It was only because she was ill that she insisted on staying in her own chambers. 

One week ago Arya had taken a chill after getting caught in the rain whilst riding through the villages below Dragonmont. In a fit of foolishness she rode on, with only Edric Dayne and Sandstrong in her company. Neither had taken ill but Arya grew a fever and Maester Pylos had been tending to her since. 

He was often ushered out of her rooms by both Sam and Maester Pylos for fear of him growing ill too but it was late now and they should both be sleeping – neither would there to shepherd him from her side.

Jon rose from bed and tied a woollen robe around his waist. Arya’s chambers in the keep was not very far from his. He lit a taper and opened the big oak doors. 

Sandstrong was standing in front of her door with his spear in hand. 

“Prince Jon of Targaryen,” Sandstrong addressed him with his heavily accented voice. 

His aunt had sent a party of fifty of her Unsullied army to guard Jon at Dragonstone. Sandstrong was captain of said guard. In her letter she had told him that while quite a few of the Unsullied left to live as sellswords, sailors and hedge knights, many stayed in her service as her royal guard. She did not say this in her letter but after having gone a few years without producing an heir, he imagined she wanted to ensure the safety of the only Targaryen heir she had: him. 

It was strange to be surrounded by so many who would die to protect him. He was still growing used to it. 

Sandstrong stood aside and Jon entered the barely used rooms of his lady wife. 

He set the candle on her bedside and it cast Arya into light. She was having her own nightmares it would seem. She tossed and turned, murmuring quietly.

“Is there any gold hidden in the village?” she murmured. “Is there any silver?”

Jon sat on the edge of her bed and he brushed a flop of sweaty hair from her forehead. In an instant, cold steel was pressed against his neck. Arya looked at him with blank eyes and Jon stayed still. The air in the room held and he took a shallow breath. 

“Arya,” he said, steadily. “Little wolf, it’s me. Can’t you see that?”

Her hand trembled but she clutched the dagger tightly, the flat of the blade still pressed to his throat. Jon moved slowly, as if approaching a nervous animal, and he plucked the dagger from her hand and held onto her wrist before she could grab at him.

“It’s me.” Jon repeated. 

Recognition dawned in her eyes and horror soon took its place. He released her hand when he was sure that sense had replaced whatever bout of madness this was. 

“Oh gods,” she said, weakly. “Forgive me. I didn’t –”

She threw her arms around him and shivered as he held her. 

“I thought you were –” she started. “It was nothing. A dream. A memory is all.”

It struck him as more than a little odd that he was unafraid, even when there a knife at his throat. It wasn’t the first time blades were pointed at him, nor would it be the last. His flesh was wounded the last few times, in battle and that terrible, cold time when his life bled from him. Yet something inside him told him that, unlike those times, blood would not have been drawn. Arya could not hurt him any more than he could hurt her. Jon could not truly tell whether this faith in her was blind or no but as he let the steel fall to the floor so he let any lingering trepidation.

“It was just a memory,” she repeated. “A bad memory from long ago.”

Her words served to sadden him. Arya should never had been in a situation where she was scared enough that stabbing someone was the only way she could think to defend herself yet it was what her life had been. She was a war hero – a fighter as well as his wife.

Jon eased her back onto the bed and called Sandstrong into the room. 

“Fetch Maester Tarly,” he ordered. 

The Unsullied guardsman bowed before leaving. 

Jon dipped the damp rag on her bedside into the bowl of cool water next to it. 

He wiped the cool water on the burning hot skin of her forehead and cheeks but she still shifted agitatedly and her eyes fluttered. 

Sam came bustling in, his chains clinking in his haste. He was red in the cheeks and it looked like he had dressed hastily. He bowed before looking at Jon in question. 

“Princess Arya is having bad dreams,” Jon said. “Perhaps some dreamwine to ease her pain and give her rest.”

“I will go fetch some.” Sam said, glancing at the bed in concern. “You should return to bed my lord.”

“I will stay with her until she sleeps,” said Jon, firmly. 

It took two more days for her fever to break and on her first week on her feet again she gifted him a dagger made of Valyrian steel. 

“I had Gendry make this for you. This was the second time I’ve pointed a blade at you,” she said, apologetic. “I think it’s fair that you have something to defend yourself with.”

“I think we can blame this one on your fever madness.” Jon replied but he took it from her anyway. The blade was finely crafted, simple yet elegant. A fine gift.

She sat next to him on one of the black, stone benches in the garden. The scent of roses and pine was high in the air. Spring had passed two moons ago and summer was upon them. It was warmer but the flowers still bloomed brightly. 

“About my nightmare ... ” she turned to face him. 

“Tell me about it,” he replied, listening intently as she did.

**ix.**

Jon was not over fond of the sea. He was a strong swimmer but he kept to streams and rivers and pools. The sea was a wild place. It answered to none and could not be controlled. It had earned Jon’s respect. 

Not Arya’s.

She liked throwing herself into the rough waters of Dragonstone and swimming like a fish. It was a game she played. He just wished she didn’t enjoy drawing him into her fun. 

Ser Edric stood guard behind them. He had started towards them after Arya first dragged Jon into the water by his tunic but Jon waved away the knight's concern.

The summer sun beat hot upon them and a splash of water in his face pulled Jon from his thoughts. 

Jon grabbed Arya’s waist in response and dragged them both underwater. The water bubbled around them as they resurfaced and Arya was laughing wildly. 

She wore a green, silk gown that would be ruined after this. It was a light thing, breathable and it clung to her body with the water. It made Jon want to kiss her. 

They had been together many times. By now Jon knew which parts of her body he loved the most; her strong legs, her small waist that fit just right in the palm of his hands, her firm breasts, her supple lips, her eyes so much like his. The feel of her – soft. The size of her – small and slender. But even with all that, he had never initiated any intimacy with her since after their first time together. He always let her lead.

For all her inexperience, Arya seemed fine with taking charge. And for all her inexperience she knew more than he expected her to. The shock of her taking his member into her mouth for the first time made him spill his seed into her mouth quicker than he would have liked.

Arya looked at him now. She seemed amused as she gazed into his eyes. He knew she could see his desire but she just looked at him. There was nothing but the sound of the wind and the crash of water on stone. Jon realised what she was saying – or what she wasn’t. Either he would kiss her or he wouldn’t but she would not move first. Not this time.

Jon tugged her by the waist and she brought her hands to his shoulders. Her lips tasted of salt when he kissed her and her mouth of honey. She had chewed on honeycomb when they broke fast. 

Her eyes were blazing as she pulled away. 

“I was beginning to believe you’d never do that.”

“I was not sure if I should,” he replied as honestly as he could. 

There was the lingering guilt that came from wanting her, from taking her but Jon was breaking no oaths. Not this time. There were no obligations when he lay with her, no expectations from either of them. She remembered to drink her moon tea so there was little risk that he would get her with child. Why should his hesitance remain?

“There is nothing wrong with wanting me,” she said, soft enough so only he could hear. “I am yours to want and only yours to have.” 

_Yes,_ thought Jon. _Mine. And it should not be any other way._

_x._

They had received a letter two moons ago from Daenerys. She was visiting Dragonstone. 

The letter came soon after Sansa’s. Sansa had written to tell them all of her son, Eddard of House Lannister. Sansa raved of his blue eyes and golden curls. She had reposed at Casterly Rock since before the birth of her boy. She had hinted that they might have a visitor soon but Jon had merely assumed that visitor would be her. 

It was an inopportune time. Jon had been meeting with his bannermen for moons now devising a plan for the problem with the pirates. Pirates were undisciplined and squabbled like children but they were hard foes to combat. They knew when to unite but they were unpredictable. One corsair would cut your throat for the same petty problem another corsair would gladly follow you for. None were fool enough to attack the queen he would wager, not a queen with three dragons and five eggs, but her party would be in danger. 

Daenerys had grown up hearing of her ancestral home. She would know how many could truly be accommodated in the castle but she would have to sail with less than she would prefer if she insisted on coming. He had written to tell her as much but he received no reply. 

Still, he and Arya had set to work. They hired extra hands, help for the cooks, the stable boys, the servants. Arya saw to replenishing their stores in hops, barley, bread and wine and Jon went out with hunting parties. There would need to be a feast when his aunt arrived, with singers and fools. Arya enjoyed the occasional song but since neither of them saw the use in fools, it took time getting one. In the end Arya had found a jester named Butterwing by the word of Lady Sunglass, versed in many tongues and with a sharp wit to befuddle and amuse. 

Daenerys Targaryen had not seen Dragonstone since climbing atop her dragons and flying North to rescue the kingdom she had not yet conquered. She deserved to see it well. The gods knew that Jon’s first time seeing Winterfell since leaving it as a boy was a sad one. He would spare his aunt that.

The day her ship docked Jon had sent Edric Dayne ahead with an honour guard to greet them but there was no need. A dark shadow flew over their heads and Jon knew what it was the moment he saw it. 

Maester Pylos looked at Drogon in wonder and fear as he landed in the yard. Many of Jon’s household shrank away in fear but Jon held his ground. Her dragons were wondrous creatures but he had ridden one. To him they did not seem so far out of reach. Arya, for her part, watched the dragon land in glee. Their wolves were agitated but they stayed next to their owners.

Queen Daenerys with her oiled and braided hair, riding leathers and sturdy boots still managed to look every bit the queen as she dismounted and strode towards him. 

“Nephew!” she greeted him with a regal smile before embracing him warmly. 

“Your Grace,” he replied. “Aunt Daenerys. Dragonstone is yours.”

She moved to Arya and kissed both her cheeks, “I am pleased to see you my good niece.” 

“As am I, Your Grace,” Arya replied. “You have taken us all by surprise.”

The queen did not miss the meaning of her words. “I am as bold as fire, my lady.”

Jon did not expect her to come on dragon back either. He understood why she would. What better way to escape the villains of the sea than to travel by sky? Her party would join her in a few hours.

His bannermen would have expected to see her. She would need to stop at Craw Isle, Driftmark, Cape Wrath and other strongholds on the isle during her visit to the castle but all of that could be discussed later.

“I will show you to your rooms,” said Arya. “if it pleases you.’

The queen took a long look around her before making her way to the dark castle.

The feast that night was a cheerful one. Tom of Sevenstreams stood next to the queen and serenaded her with sweet songs of love and beauty and merriment.  He was a true singer so he sang a few songs of sadness while playing a sombre tune on his lute. 

The queen did not weep, nor did Arya but Jon saw her handmaiden, Missandei wiping away a few tears and many women in the lower seats had wet eyes. 

Thankfully, Tom played happier songs after and Butterwing juggled to the music leaving laughter in his wake.

The dancing started soon after but Jon stayed on his seat on the dais along with his aunt.

“You have lovely cousins Jon,” said Daenerys as Arya rose to dance with a pretty, brown-haired knight of the Queensguard. 

“How _is_ Sansa?” asked Jon, politely.

“Lord Tyrion says she has taken to motherhood with all the excitement of a new mother.” 

Daenerys did not venture any questions about Arya though he was sure she wanted to. He had been quite firm in his last letter about the matter.

“She was trying to teach me needlepoint before she left for the rock,” said Daenerys. “She says I’m a fast learner but I’m certain she simply flatters.”

“Arya was always abysmal at sewing,” said Jon, fondly. “She preferred riding and playing stick swords with our little brother. Or running about playing with the lowborn children at the castle, or befriending farmers and bakers and serving wenches, even dirty freeriders.”

“Truly?” questioned Daenerys. “As a child?”

Jon nodded at her and she looked thoughtful. The music stopped and Tom beamed at the praise he received after. 

“It is so strange,” Daenerys said, wistfully, as the music started once more. “To be in a place that is home but not home at all.”

“Strange indeed “ Jon replied, watching Arya dance with Loras Tyrell.

Jon was not sure if she meant King’s Landing or Dragonstone but he knew the feeling all too well.

**xi.**

Arya was out riding with his aunt. Jon did not even notice when they became such fast friends. One moment they were simply cordial with one another, and the other Arya was recounting in awe what it was like to ride on dragon back. They were just riding horses now. Arya wanted to show Daenerys the villages. 

_“They should see their queen,”_ Arya insisted. _“Let them know who brought them peace.”_  

Daenerys agreed easily enough as so out they were. His aunt seemed happier than he had ever seen her before. Jon supposed it made sense. The war was over and they were beginning to know true peace. 

He also noted that her lord husband did not make the journey with her. Jon did not need to be told what that implied. 

She had been here for three moons but said her time on the isle was coming to an end. Jon was happy that Arya was able to occupy her for Lord Davos and Lord Celtigar arrived at the castle two weeks ago to discuss strategy. 

Jon held a soft spot in his heart for Lord Davos who brought Rickon safely home to Winterfell. He certainly respected him more than he did Lord Ardrian Celtigar; a prickly old man who saw slight in every other word and knew no true loyalty, but that did not mean that Jon favoured one's advice over the other's. They both knew seafaring better than he and he was grateful for their advice. He just wished that they did not bicker so much. 

“We shouldn’t sail with no loud fanfare,” Lord Davos argued. “Nothing will make them sail away faster. They know these waters well m'lord.”

“You imply that these scoundrels know these seas better than I who have lived on Claw Isle my entire life?” Lord Celitgar gave Lord Davos a cold look. 

“What you know is what you know but what I know is how these men think –”

“Small wonder how,” Lord Celtigar muttered. 

“I know they know subtlety and secrecy in ways that you do not.” Lord Davos said, louder. “We would have to be phantoms to capture them all.”

Jon had a mind to ask Arya her thoughts later. She knew more of being a ghost than his wolf. 

“My lords!” Jon interrupted them, steel in his voice. They both looked at him across the painted table. “I think I have heard enough. Leave me.”

When they left the room Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. He had wanted to attack the corsairs earlier only to find that he was dealing with a worse problem than he thought. One that would need more than just strength of sailing and simple tactics. Would that his bannermen could put their squabbling to the side so they could sail in unity. If the pirates could do it, why not they?

Jon walked from the Chamber of the Painted Table. The strain was tight in his back. There was some accord between him and many of his lords but whatever respect they may have grudgingly grown for him, it was not enough to subdue any feuds they may have with each other.

Jon did not realise that he was making to the godswood until he was just there. Taking a step closer, he realised he was not alone. Mid-length brown and silver hair stood side by side in front of the weirwood tree. Daenerys had changed into a gown of lilac silk and samite but Arya was still in her leathers. Jon could see that Arya was touching the white bark of the weirwood as he peered closer.

“She has grown so much,” Arya was saying. “I was beginning to fear that she would never take root in this place. Had she not, then neither would I. Not truly.”

He had to strain to hear them. 

“Planting trees are more difficult than I would have believed.” Daenerys was saying. “But it is better to try than not. If you try then you may be able to do so in more than one way.”

Jon did not stay to listen the rest. He misliked eavesdropping but their words gave him thought. He and Arya were trying to plant their own kind of trees but they were doing so on water when they felt safer on ice. He was wolf and dragon both – a creature of the wild, of forests and skies. Yet dragons and wolves found places where they could settle. Castle Black was no true home to him, not like Winterfell was but even there he had never fit. Not unless his little sister was around, trailing behind him, jumping on his back, showering him with kisses, riding at his side.

Dragonstone was a different sort of home to Winterfell and to Castle Black but he was starting to believe it could be a true one. As long as Arya was with him, he could make anywhere his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so both Jon and Arya are clearly dealing with PTSD but talking about it is a good step towards the healing process. 
> 
> I know Loras is either dead/burned beyond recognition in canon but my friend told me about a theory that Lora's is actually fine and the news of his condition is a Tyrell plot. I don't believe it but I like Loras hence Queensguard!Loras.


	4. Year Four

**xii.**

Jon’s sea legs were solid beneath him as he looked to the grey-green waters. They were sailing portside and for that he was grateful. He had been at sea for near two moons now, only travelling as far as to Castle Driftmark twice, since he had set sail, to gain more resources and then back to sea again. The trouble with the pirates was bigger than he had imagined. The bloody beggars had set up a new den on the Isle of Driftmark and were sailing there to the sea and back again to do their smuggling and murder; and now thanks to his efforts, their leader was in shackles below deck along with many of his pirates.

The sea was not a place Jon was used to navigating. He had done as good a job as he could have hoped to. Only a few pirates had made their escape and the rest were returning to the isle to face justice. He could have done worse. Davos Seaworth had told him that if there was one thing smugglers knew how to do, it was to go unnoticed and he used that to his advantage with small ships painted to look like the night and quiet sailing; attacking only in the dead of the night. _To kill a beast you must learn their tricks and use it against them,_ Arya had said to him once. He had taken that advice. And Lord Davos knew their trade better than all the rest which was the reason Jon chose him to lead the vanguard at his side over anyone else. Even with Lord Celtigar's grumblings.

Jon had set up sentries at shore to catch any stray corsair making his way to Dragonstone. When he finally returned home he would have to see to setting up guards to trail the coast of their shores; make certain that their shores remained clear of villainy.

From the letters he had received from his little brothers, Bran had been spending half his time at Winterfell and the other half at the ruins of the Wall, rebuilding it. The Watch would be even more gruelling work than it was before. What was left of the Night’s Watch were mostly builders and few raiders. The corsairs they had caught had a simple choice. Execution or the Wall. A hard choice either way.

The setting sun was resting upon the sea, a golden horizon on skies of pink and orange. He could easily ignore the smell of piss and blood on the deck and the coarse shouts and curses from below were even easier to ignore. He walked from the stern leaving the sunset in his rear.

His men hailed him as he walked past, some with shouts to share ale with them, some with respectful bows, some with “my lords”. Jon nodded at them and made to the bow of the ship.

He longed to see land ahead. He wished to be on solid ground and to see his little wolf.

He’d had some confusing dreams of late. At first he thought them to be wolf dreams but it wasn’t so. In his dreams he was a direwolf – white and fierce, mounting a grey wolf after a long chase. He panicked when he woke that early morn. He had never mounted a she-wolf whilst inside Ghost. The following nights his dream had changed. _He_ was the grey wolf now, surrounded by little pups of white and grey, running through the woods with his mate and his young. He had woken in less of a panic but still with much trepidation. Sleeping away from Arya did him no good.

A man drifted near him, at the bow of the ship and leaned forward, watching the waves crash onto wood.

“We will be at shore by midnight, my lord.”

“Lord Davos you know these seas better than us all,” Jon said. “I will take you at your word.”

Lord Davos did not lie. The moon was in its crescent and the sky was littered with stars when they docked and Jon was not the only one eager to go home. Men wanted to lie with their wives or their paramours, and of course there were those headed to the closest brothel. He knew that there were others who would sooner spend the night in an inn than make this long trek in the dark but he urged them on. Jon himself wished to hold his wild wife in his arms. He had missed her much.

She wanted to come to sea with him to sea but they had gotten word of the return of the Braavosi envoy. Arya spoke their tongue, was good at sums and she was unafraid of letting anyone know just how formidable she was. He trusted none else to haggle in his place lest they were conned out of more than they owed.

The dark castle of Dragonstone loomed in the distance and his party of fifteen guards, twenty Unsullied and ten roughened freeriders rode behind him. The prisoners were bound and trailed behind on feet.

Arya stood in the yard as they rode in. Maester Pylos, Arthur Peyle, Ser Edric and Sam were stood behind her but Jon only had eyes for her. She was dressed in a gown of cloth of silver and grey velvet. Her hair was tightly bound in a braid and it fell over her shoulder, dark over the silver – as beautiful as the night sky. He knew he was not the only one that noticed. Mounted torches cast a light over her, setting her face aglow with a reddish gold.

She walked forward while Jon dismounted and then she rushed towards him, almost tackling him in a hug. He was surrounded by the scent of her and the feel of her soft body. He nestled his nose in her hair, unwilling to let go just yet.

It was only when someone cleared their throat did Jon pull away. Arya regained her composure quickly and smiled at his men.

“There is bread and meat and wine awaiting you in the Great Hall and beds to rest in when you are full,” she said. “You are welcome to the hospitality of Dragonstone for as long as you need.”

“Ser Edric see the Lord of Waters and his _men_ to the dungeons,” said Jon. “Judgement will be passed on the morrow.”

The yard slowly cleared; stable boys leading the horses away, Edric Dayne leading the prisoners away, and his men and the freeriders heading towards a hot meal and warm bed until it was just him and Arya left alone.

“I missed you a great deal when you were gone,” Arya said softly. She straightened the furs thrown over his shoulders.

“I missed you too, little wolf.” Jon said.

“There is – I have something I need to tell you she said.” Arya bounced on her feet with barely contained anxiousness. 

Jon raised his brow as Arya took his hands in hers and placed them on her abdomen.

“There is an heir inside me.”

**xiii.**

“Prince Jon,” Sam looked at him with an unusual solemnity. “You must needs speak with the princess.”

Sam had a strange relationship with Arya. He seemed to respect her well. Though Jon had never seen them hold a conversation for too long; there was a quiet camaraderie they shared – a camaraderie that did not extend to commands on Arya’s person.

“Did you hear me, my lord?” asked Sam.

Jon shot him a half-hearted glare. He had tried to get Sam to call him _Jon_ if only when they were in private but Sam could be obstinate when pressed.

“I did.” said Jon. “What does she need?”

“She is doing her needlework, my lord,” Sam said. It was a fond habit adopted throughout their household, calling their lady's swordplay her _needlework_. “Her blindfold on and her Needle in hand,”

Jon clenched his jaw. _Was she mad in the head?_ Jon shot to his feet. “I will speak to her.”

Fury mounted in him as he headed to the barn. She always trained in a small alcove inside the barn. She liked training where none could see. _It is best that no one knows your weakness or your advantages. You never know who you may end up facing in battle._ It was fine advice for another time but not now when she was large with child. He kept imploring her to rest. He had taken the task of delivering justice in her stead. She was angry when he had first decided that; her rage was more full of fire than ice – a dragon’s breath. It had cooled into a warm hearth later. Jon thought she understood the need to relax in her state. Apparently she did not.

She was half hidden by walls but when he walked closer to peer inside the nook he saw her twirling about with a small, thin sword, hitting the straw dummies she often moved about. Sam had said she was using Needle but he was still surprised to see it. She used Dark Sister more oft than not and sometimes tourney swords. Jon would have felt a rush of sweet sentiment were this another time and he may even have admired her grace but his anger was stronger than all the rest.

“My lady!” he called out and she whirled to face him, ripping off her blindfold.

She wore breeches that he knew could not lace up and one of his tunics. It hung loose on her frame but he could still see the shape of her belly. Her belly was swollen. It was not as large as others he’d seen but it was more than noticeable.

Her shoulders were stiff as she approached him. She hated when he called her that. She tolerated from mostly everyone else but the last time he’d called her _my lady_ she’d punched him in the arm so hard that he was left with a bruise.

“Let me hear it then,” she crossed her arms tightly and looked up at him with a severe gaze.

“You’re risking yourself and our child because you just wanted to train?” asked Jon. “Did you think this wise?”

He had half a mind to toss her over his shoulders and put her to bed, hide her swords until she could use them again. See if she would be this foolish again.

“How else was I to get my frustration out?” she slashed at the wall with Needle.

She kept it well oiled and sharp though she rarely ever used it. _It’s precious to me,_ she had said when he asked her why she still kept it. It gave him some relief to know she would never rid herself of it.

“And what frustrates you?” he asked.

Arya’s jaw was set in a stubborn frown. “I want to go riding.”

Jon sighed. Arya had not been on horseback since she knew she was with child. She told him that she missed the freedom of riding through the woods, cheeks flushed and wind tousling her hair. She rode in litters through villages and ports buying from merchants and giving copper to beggars and waving at little children, but it was not the same. Being confined in those things did not make Jon very happy either but it was necessary. He did not want her to miscarry.

“I will have you on Whisper once more the moment our son is born,” Jon said.

“Daughter.” Arya corrected him.

She was certain she carried a girl within her. Jon did not care either way. All that concerned him was that Arya survived the birth; though there was something inside him that longed for a babe he could watch grow.

Since Arya told him of her pregnancy his mind's eye conjured visions of a son he could teach swordplay and throw balls and hunt with and a girl he could play come-into-my-castle and monsters and maidens with and teach how to grip a sword or bow. He wanted this babe, he realised.

“But you will not be this foolish again.”

She glared at the floor. “I know. I know. I should try not to over exert myself like this until the babe is born.”

Jon cupped her cheeks in his hands and she looked up at him. He bent to kiss her lightly on the lips.

“There are other ways to release frustration.”

Her eyes grew dark and in an instant she gazed at him with desire.

“ _Fuck_ me then,” she said, lowly.

Jon’s stomach lurched. Arya enjoyed whispering filthy things to him when he lay with her and newly with child she wanted him more than ever. He’d spent himself inside her so much he’d japed that he might get her with twins. He did not mind. Not at all. Jon’s favourite place to be was next to her, inside her, surrounded by her. It was home.

“I’ll take you to bed –”

“No,” she pushed his chest, backing him further into the little nook. “Take me now.”

Jon almost protested but she slipped her hand inside his leather jerkin and all objections died on his tongue.

He backed her into the wall and kissed her thoroughly. She started unlacing his breeches and he pushed hers below her knees.

“Turn around,” he said, lowly.

Arya smirked. She liked being taken from behind almost as much as she liked riding him. He supposed it appealed to her inner wolf. She braced her hands against the wall.

Jon held her hips. He loved the soft feel of her. He smoothed his hand over the curve of her arse, moving his hand forward. He traced his fingers along the inside of her mound until he found that small nub that gave her pleasure. He stroked her in circles; Arya was already damp but she grew damper as he stroked her.

“Jon,” she whined her frustration.

He grabbed hold of his manhood and guided himself into her tightness and she sighed. He made a few shallow thrusts before he started pumping into her.

“Gods you feel …” he did not see the need to finish that sentence.

He grabbed one of her cloth covered breasts and squeezed lightly. They had grown larger with milk and barely fit in his hand.

“Do me harder!” she demanded.

Jon complied as much as could be accepted. His fingers found the little nub under her mound again and he rubbed it as he drove into her wet heat.

She clenched around him, gasping breathlessly. Jon thrust into her until he found his own sweet release.

Arya’s lips were red-bitten when she turned around. She must have bit her lips to keep from making too much noise.

“I hope that you know I love you,” she smiled at him.

Jon kissed her lightly, “And I love you.”

Arya beamed at him before glancing at their clothes. “We need to fix ourselves before we leave.”

There was silence as they adjusted their clothes. This was unwise but upon looking at Arya’s blissed out face Jon could not bring himself to regret it.

**xiv.**

The Great Hall was overrun with meat, mead and merriment. It was six moons since Arya told him of her pregnancy and tonight they feasted. His bannermen made the journey to give their congratulations, to wheedle third and fourth sons into his service, to suggest tax drops for themselves and tax increases for their ports, to beg favours and to perform their farce. Jon surprised himself at how well he was able to fend off their requests without giving insult. He had learned how to be diplomatic with them but these southroners still seemed a strange sort to him. His tongue felt thick and clumsy when playing their game of duelling with words but he was getting better at it.

Arya was laughing with Lady Seaworth, Lord Celtigar's niece and his granddaughters, Lord Bar Emmon's new bride and Lord Bar Emmon himself. She charmed them, he realised. It had taken them both years to get there but their lords' acceptance of them seemed to grow each day.

Jon did not know if it was true acceptance or if they were trying to sweeten themselves to people close to the queen but either way it made ruling this island easier.

Tom of Sevenstreams started playing the familiar tune of _The Winter’s Dragon_ and Jon prepared himself for his wife to tease him later. They had first heard the song their last visit at King’s Landing along with a song of her own fabled exploits, _The Night Wolf Howled ‘Til Dawn_ and one of the queen's called _Fire Was Our Saviour, Fire Was Her Love_. Arya, of course, found it all most amusing and encouraged her friend Tom to learn them if only to annoy him. The singer took to the task with glee.

Tom was strange a strange fellow. He was older than Jon and had lived through the horrors of war yet he seemed unable to face anything with seriousness. Arya told him that he could when necessary but Jon had yet to see it.

Jon misliked him for it. Or perhaps it was the indifference in which he treated his bastard that made Jon view him with an unkind eye. Jeyne Heddle ran an inn outside the castle filled with orphaned children her son could play with, it was near enough that little Robard often visited Dragonstone to trail behind his father and pester him with questions. Tom could be warm to the boy and seemed to delight that he had a sweet, high voice like his father but there were times when he would walk past him with cold disinterest.

Jon wondered what it would have been like had Eddard Stark flipped between hot and cold with him. He had only known true chilliness from Lady Catelyn and her kin and middling haughtiness to flighty bouts of affection from Sansa. A better lot than Robard Waters. If the boy did not want a lute, Jon long decided he would give him a sword.

The tune came to an end and there were shouts for more to which Tom grinned.

Arya floated over to him gracefully and sat at his side.

“What a lovely song,” she said with a mischief in her voice.

“Don’t start.” Jon said.

“Oh don’t be a churl,” she teased. “You are the stuff of songs for good reason.”

“As are you.”

“Well, unlike you, I don’t fuss when any song writ about me is sung.” Arya replied, easily.

Jon glanced at her. There was a set of contentment on her lips. He smiled and he placed his hand on the swell of her stomach.

“She has not kicked much all night,” said Arya.

That did not inspire Jon to move his hand. There was still some fear hidden underneath at the idea of this all but there was so much wonder in him too.

Jon had not been a green boy for a long time now but neither had he truly been a man grown. He occupied some strange, grey space in between both but to be a man and lord with a family of his own, the man would have to be born before the babe was and Jon would make certain that it was.

Nymeria scratched at the door savagely. If the doors were not so thick and finely built then Jon was sure she would have broken it down. Ghost had butted into the door earlier and had pushed Maester Pylos to the floor when he tried to shut him out. It had taken Jon going out to quiet him before he quietly lay on the floor beside his sister. Nymeria was not so easily soothed. And Jon could understand why. Ghost would tear someone’s throat out if he heard Jon in pain. Nymeria was even more protective, and her owner was in her chambers birthing a babe.

The direwolves had stayed in the room at first but then Arya’s face went white and the growling started.

Maester Pylos tried to persuade Jon out of the room along with the wolves but Jon just glared at him. He would not let his lady wife endure this alone.

“I'll stay out of your way,” he said. “But I’ll stay.”

“Jon stays,” Arya said, fiercely when Myla, one of the midwives, tried to insist.

Sam was the only one who did not seem perturbed. Then, Sam knew that this would not be the first time he was in a birthing room. He remembered Dalla's boy: born in battle – a strong boy, loud and hale, and a wildling with all that he was. Val had him now; raising him in her very own castle with her Glover husband. It was no good thinking of that now.

Nymeria’s howling took him from his thoughts and her pack beneath the window echoed her. It was deafening. Worse than the rain beating against the walls like a steady drum.

“We must get the kennelmaster to herd them away from here,” said Lyn anxiously. “The noise will upset milady.”

“No,” whispered Gilly. “It helps her.”

It was true. Arya’s eyes were closed but her lips were set in tranquility even pressed together tightly as they were.

 _She will survive this,_ Jon told himself. Arya was pale and sweat beaded across her skin but she looked strong, alert.

“My lady,” said Maester Pylos. “It is time to push again.”

Arya looked at him with relief. They had been here for hours waiting for the birth of their first child. Arya’s brows furrowed in concentration and Jon could only imagine she was doing as the maester asked. Nothing would have suggested to him – or to anyone truly, that she was in pain but for how tightly she gripped his hand; he was certain that she was stopping the blood flow.

“You are doing well little wolf,” he whispered to her ear.

Arya nodded infinitesimally but she made not a sound. Jon could not tell how long Arya gripped onto his hand or how long it was until she brought forth their babe to the song of the howling of wolves.

Sam took the wailing babe from Maester Pylos and cleaned it in the birthing bowl while the maester turned to them.

“You have a healthy new daughter, my lord.” Maester Pylos said solemnly over the sound of howls and a baby’s wailing.

“I was right.” Arya whispered, triumphantly.

“You were.” Jon replied.

Arya’s dark hair was matted with sweat and there was exhaustion in in the slump of her shoulders. But with her soft eyes and flushed face, she looked more beautiful than any other person in the room.

Sam put the baby – the tiny, little girl, to Arya’s breast and she smiled down at their daughter. Arya’s grey eyes were soft as water as she looked to her. Jon ignored the way her handmaidens cooed and moved closer. The babe was a red, squalling thing with a mop of brown hair and colourless, watery eyes, (it would be Stark grey one day) struggling to get her mother’s breast in her mouth.

“Rub the tip about her mouth,” one of the midwives suggested.

Arya followed her instruction and the babe latched on to her breast and fed. Jon could only look on in awe. He had a daughter. A child of his own. It was once an unfathomable idea to him – a child that would carry his name; now that it was true, he wanted nothing more than to shield her, to protect her from the cruelty of the world.

“I think we should call her Lyanna.” Arya said, looking at him hesitantly.

“A fitting name,” Jon replied. “For a babe who was born in your image.”

“Our image,” said Arya.

As Jon traced the babe’s –  Lyanna's – cheek with his finger, she turned her wet eyes on him and his heart swelled with adoration. He looked towards Arya who had her fond eyes upon him and Jon had never loved anyone more than he loved these two girls.

“Lyanna Wolfsong,” said Lyn wistfully, drawing them both from their little world of three. It sounded right.

“Let the direwolves in.” Jon said on a whim.

“My lord,” said Myla cautiously but Sam had already moved to open the door.

Nymeria bounded into the room, jumped onto the bed and sniffed at Lyanna. Gilly, Lyn, Sam and Maester Pylos were wary but not overmuch. They were used to the wolves by now. But the midwives scattered back, looking to the wolves and to the babe, back and forth, fearfully. Lyanna was unafraid and she looked at the giant wolf looking down at her with curiosity. Nymeria made a circle on the bed and lay her head on Arya’s lap. Ghost settled next to his feet looking at the babe curiously. Lyanna settled on the cushion of Arya’s breast and fell asleep.

“She is Lyanna Wolfsong of House Targaryen,” Arya proudly declared. “Princess of Dragonstone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long waits between chapters. My health has taken a downturn which makes it harder to write. I'll update the last chapter before the show airs though. Thanks for reading!!!


	5. Year Five

**xvi.**

Jon’s head throbbed – though whether it was from the exhaustion or the noise he could not say. Lyanna wailed in the arms of her nursemaid and Jon had a mind to go into the hall and tell her to go to the babe's chambers. Arya, for her part, seemed to have no problem ignoring the noise as she went over the castle’s weekly numbers. Jon set his quill down and went to see what the fuss was about.

Willow Heddle, Jeyne's sister, paced the hall, rocking the small bundle in her hands from side to side and whispering soft words to her. Willow’s short, brown hair fell into her face, obscuring her from his view.

Arya was at Lyanna’s beck and call for nigh on three moons after her birth but she said she could not put off her duties forever. They had decided that it was good sense to share the task of justice but she wanted to continue her regular chores. Training with Sandstrong and Ned Dayne, managing the food stores, the household's accounts, dealing with cooks, servants and stablehands, controlling her wolves. Sam had suggested getting a wet nurse for the babe but Arya insisted she could do it all – everything, on her own.

It was more of a trial than he thought it would be, tending a child. For the first few weeks he thought he had gone mad; the crying, the fussing, even her silences worried him. It was Sam who suggested to him that he find a nursemaid to give succour to Gilly. Arya relented and mentioned that the children in Jeyne and Willow Heddle's care were well cared for and many of them were old enough that Jeyne had more than enough hands to help her. Willow was considering leaving the island to find work in King’s Landing but Arya thought she would be better suited working in the castle.

“Can’t you calm her?” asked Jon briskly, causing her to snap her head in his direction.

Willow gave him a defiant glare, “I can quiet her, m’lord but she needs to be fed. There’s nothing else to be done about that than wait.”

 “Give her to me.” Jon commanded.

Willow complied easily and he held his daughter in his arms. He bounced her lightly and she quieted, staring up at him with big, grey eyes. She gurgled at him before she started another set of wails. Jon smiled softly. She was a sweet thing. Not as loud as what little he remembered her mother had been as a babe nor as fierce but she was not a gentle one either. She was like him, wild and not; a wolf and a dragon both but in some ways, neither.

He took her to her lady mother. Jon flicked the quill from between Arya’s fingers and put their daughter in her arms.

“She needs your breast,” said Jon.

“Yes,” Arya sighed, adjusting her tunic. “I meant to come to her.”

Lyanna fed from her eagerly. Jon stared at them. He was not yet unawed by the sight them: his family.

“Willow should have brought her in.” Arya said. Her face a study in consternation.

Jon lifted a brow. “And face your wrath? Would you have a madwoman care our child?”

Arya shot him a dark look but Jon was unmoved. She would not admit that he spoke true but she knew he had the right of it. Arya often switched from fiery to chilly but it had heightened since birthing Lyanna. No one knew what would cause her to snap, to grow sullen or even to burst into tears. Jon found it to be a little less than a nuisance and both maesters ensured him that this would pass, but others treaded lightly in her presence. He did not blame them. Arya’s temper was a precarious thing. It always had been. But after a lifetime of dealing with them, Jon had never feared her tempers.

Fed and burped, Lyanna now lay contentedly in her mother’s arms. She had befouled the back of Arya’s tunic but neither seemed to care. Arya tapped her little nose and she giggled. A happy babe. Jon’s only wish was that she remained so. She would know none of her parents' suffering if he could help it.

**xvii.**

Ghost ran past him, past the thicket of bushes and into the woods. Wolf and man were both at the hunt it would seem.

Whatever prey his direwolf was after, Jon could not bother himself. His own prey stood before him. It was a large deer. One arrow misaimed and it would scare and dart into the trees. Jon had one advantage. He knew these woods well. In his wolf dreams he ran through these woods without any other care than catching weaker animals and feasting on their flesh. After the catch Jon usually left Ghost to eat in peace but as a result he knew where game would hide. He wasn’t the only one who knew the secrets of these woods. So it was no surprise to him when an arrow flew from his left, hitting the deer in his neck. A sharp shot but not a deadly one; the prey reared and made to run. Jon released the crossbow and an arrow caught the deer in the eye. It fell to the floor with a final thud.

“That was a fine shot.” Jon said, approvingly.

“More so yours,” came the reply.

Coming from behind a redwood with a grin and a longbow in hand was his little wolf.

“That’s two now,” she looked at the deer on the ground that Sandstrong was dragging next to his other kill. “You never let me finish any off.”

“Well one day perhaps,” Jon grinned. “When you’re as swift as I.”

Arya shot him an annoyed look but she did not retort. She knew her skill had grown in the past few moons. Better than it was before but she still had much to learn.

She had pestered him again and again to take her hunting but he did not relent until she mastered the bow. She had some skill that she said was learned across the Narrow Sea but not enough. She was still unsteady. He offered to learn her and Arya took to the task with vivacity, she was nothing but a diligent student. She oft had a babe in her arms, swaying, walking, feeding, singing to Lyanna in that hoarse, tuneless way of hers in tongues he did not know. But when she was not attending their daughter or her duties, she was practising the bow. She had Edric Dayne teach her archery as well. She was not yet an expert archer but she was fair enough that Jon trusted her not to hurt herself or anyone else if she rode out with him.

“You and Ned can mount the kills,” said Arya. “I’ll find the wolves.”

She rode off on her new destrier for which she was always eager to ride with four guards at her heels.

Ser Edric Dayne smiled at him and Jon nodded in return. He and the knight had formed something of a comradery. They were not friends but they were something close. Jon found that he did not mind it. Edric Dayne was a good man; earnest and leal he was and a fine swordsman to boot, Jon found the young knight to be good company.

After securing the two deer, with the help of the remaining guardsmen, and strapping it next to the large boar that was a catch of Jon’s own they both mounted their horses.

“I suppose Lamb will be making venison for supper,” said Ser Edric.

“It shall be salted and stored I’m afraid,” replied Jon. “We know not how soon winter will be upon us. It would not do to be unprepared.”

“Ah,” said Ser Edric. “Winter is a long time away good prince.” At Jon’s look he moved on. “Ser Gendry has told that you ordered him make steel bolts as strong as if you’re building a keep.”

Jon grunted. “It is no secret. Winter past was kind to none. Many lost homes and families. There is not a lot to be done about what is already lost but we must try to prevent whatever new losses where we can.”

Jon knew it would be a gruelling task and a thankless one until they all felt the winter wind blow its icy breeze, chilling them to the bone. Dragonstone was nothing near as large as Winterfell and there was no space for the smallfolk to take refuge for the coming winter. That would change. Arya had already started seeing to the building of glass gardens like at Winterfell. An additional keep would be more work and more coin.

Sam was worried that Jon would need to borrow from the Braavosi Bank once more but he had enough gold for the task. His tax increase was a better idea than he’d hoped, despite the grousing of his bannermen.

“Lamb can always prepare something closer to his namesake.” Jon said, lightening his voice. As he heard the trotting of hooves, he added. “Princess Arya would know better than I.”

“What would I know?” Arya rode near them with Sandstrong and some of his Unsullied men behind her.

“What is for supper, my lady.” Ser Edric replied, a pink tint on his cheeks.

Arya seemed only slightly amused. “Honeyed lamb, capon, parsnips and boiled apples with red peppers and some oatcakes.”

“Would that we were at the castle now,” said Ser Edric, lowly.

Sandstrong gave the knight a sharp nod and said something in his strange tongue. Arya smiled and murmured something in High Valyrian. Sandstrong did not smile back but he bowed as well as he could on mount.

“We journey forth,” said Jon, calling them all to ride home.

It was a quiet journey with his wife beside him. They were tired from the excursion and though as amiable as he was reserved, he knew Arya was eager to return to their daughter.

“Ned asked of your efforts?” she asked.

It no longer surprised him the things his wife was capable of hearing. He nodded in response.

“He does not seem to understand, but he will.”

Arya nodded. “Many will find it odd. To these southerners, winter has passed and will not soon come.”

“I fear I have not the constitution for that sort of thinking,” said Jon. “A short spring tells of a short summer.”

“Yes,” Arya smiled. “You were always good at worrying. _Nothing in life is fair,_ you used to say.”

“I oft spake those words,” Jon acknowledged. “Hopefully it will not be soon but winter is coming.”

“Winter is coming.” Arya repeated. “Yes. It may be so.”

**xviii.**

Jon was late to supper. He had spent much of the day talking to builders, listening to petitioners, soothing arguments and time had drifted into nothingness. It was only when Sam tapped his shoulder and he saw how low the sun sat in the sky that he made his excuses.

Usually he would invite a member of his household to sit beside him, to regale him with stories, to ramble, to complain. _Never ask your men to die for a stranger,_ his lord father would say. Jon heeded that advice. He did not once when his cloak was black and it had ended disastrously. Jon would not make the same mistake twice. He never forgot this. It was strange that he did today. It was too late for him to ask anyone without causing insult. On the morrow he would rectify his mistake and ask someone to sit with him. Maester Pylos perhaps, or Lamb, their newly appointed cook.

Yet when he approached his high seat in Dragonstone's Great Hall a man was already sit at the accustomed seat. The outlaw knight turned smith knight, Gendry Waters.

The man was conversing with Arya and looking at the babe in her arms with something akin to the pride that had flown off the pages of his aunt’s letter welcoming a new Targaryen into the world.

_Ser Gendry is kin to Lyanna_ , Jon remembered. _And to me._ Their grandfathers were cousins. Not a close enough relation to matter but his blood all the same. A bastard like Jon once was – still was in many ways. Under different circumstances his life may have been Jon’s.

Jon should have made more efforts to befriend the man. He should have but he didn’t.

It was not that Jon misliked Gendry Waters. Once Jon may have felt something akin to jealousy at just the thought of him but no longer. He had never doubted Arya’s affection for him and though the blacksmith’s eyes sometimes wandered in her presence, so did the eyes of many other men. His wife was had a wild beauty that drew the eye. He was used to it and even with their familiarity Ser Gendry was not untoward. So why did Jon avoid him as though the knight were a poxy whore and Jon a pious septon?

He approached the high seat and gave the knight a cordial nod as he sat between him and Arya.

“She wouldn’t sleep,” Arya explained Lyanna’s presence. “And she fussed when Gilly and Willow tried to calm her.”

Jon nodded in understanding. Lyanna usually slept as they supped yet there were spells during which the babe would not rest unless she was in one of their arms.

Lyanna peered up at his presence and stretched her little hands towards him. Joy alit his skin as he took her and held her as gently as could.

“Gendry was just telling me of Tom’s infatuation with Gilly,” said Arya. Jon looked up from Lyanna to see her nod at the singer across the room.

Indeed he was singing in the direction of Gilly who was doing a remarkable display of disinterest though her cheeks were stained with pink.

Jon bristled. Lyanna grew unsettled at the change and Jon shifted, relaxing his posture. He tore apart a peach and popped a piece into her mouth. Little Lya's face brightened and she plucked the bit of fruit from her mouth and put it in his.

Arya’s eyes twinkled with amusement as she watched them.

“She believes in sharing,” said Arya. “That much we know.”

“Just like her mother,” said Gendry, fondly.

Jon cleared his throat irritably and brought the conversation back to the topic at hand, “Gilly should not become entangled with someone so fond of wenching.”

Sam and Gilly were chaste but Sam confessed that he still loved her with everything in his heart. There was no future in that sort of relationship but Jon did not like the thought of her with Tom. His interest in a particular woman tended to last no more than a fortnight. Gilly had her own sort of strength; she survived Craster and war and the Others at her back, but there was something passive about her. He could see how she – a girl who knew little of the world and less of men beyond Sam and her father-husband would fall as swiftly as a scythe before his charms.

“I wouldn’t worry m'lord,” said Ser Gendry in his low, rumbling voice. “She’s spurned the rascal thrice and I’d wager she’ll do it again.”

“And you know her well enough to predict this.”

“Aye m'lord.” Gendry insisted. “We get on well. She’s a tough girl. She likes him not. She’ll keep resisting him I think.”

Jon was doubtful but Gendry had no reason to lie.

Arya sent Jon a reproachful look before taking Lyanna from his arms.

“I believe she is finally ready to sleep.”

Lyanna’s blinking had indeed slowed and she let out a loud yawn as she transferred between them.

Arya bent carefully to kiss him atop his head. To anyone it would appear that her lips were brushing his temple as she whispered,

“It was not Gendry’s fault that he was there to help me when you weren’t. He is a good man.”

With that she swept from the room. It startled him, her clear discernment of the root of his problem. How did he not notice it? Gendry was with her during her hellish sojourn in Harrenhal, with her during the first battle she ever fought and through her journey through the war torn Riverlands. Their journey. He was her companion who protected her and looked after her when Jon himself could not. When he thought her dead.

The knight was loyal to her when he had no reason to be. Jon ought not to resent the man but to thank him. In a sense he had done so in giving Gendry lifelong work, but while they would never be friends, he would have to try at being more gracious.

“How goes your work Ser Gendry?” asked Jon, more politely. “Ser Edric says your steel is the best anyone in the Seven Kingdoms could ask for.”

The young knight seemed gratified as he started to wax on about fire and steel.

**xvix.**

Bran’s letter turned in his head. He had last seen his little brother one moon after Lyanna’s name day. He was true to his word and used his secrets of blood and the trees to carve a face into the weirwood in the godswood. Bran would not allow either of them to be present during the ritual and Jon could guess why easily enough but whatever it took for the red face of the heart tree to be carved, it was worth it.

“Blood and ice,” Bran had said as they four stood in front of the tree. “Not an ill omen after all.”

Six moons had turned since that day and Jon still knew not what Bran meant or why it made Arya smile but Jon was certain that there were many things about this world that Bran alone knew.

He entered his solar to see Arya and Lyn speaking softly on the window seat as the handmaiden stitched what looked like a doublet of his.

“I would speak to my lady wife,” said Jon, sparing the handmaiden a deep nod.

This one was a soft-spoken and mild-mannered one with fraught nerves, prone to jumping at the loudest noise. She confided in his wife and Arya told him pieces of what she endured as servant to the Bastard Bolton. Jon made certain to be gentle around her.

“As it pleases m'lord,” she curtseyed, setting her sewing aside.

“Our brother is to be wed,” said Jon once the room was clear.

“Bran?” asked Arya with bemused delight. “Truly!”

“He asked for the hand of Meera of House Reed he’s written.” Jon said. “In four moons he will call forth his banners and kin for their wedding.”

Jon longed to see his little brothers. Rickon had grown from all accounts and he proudly wrote that he was now training with steel with his sword as well as his spear. Bran’s rule of Winterfell was assisted by an uncle who held no love for Jon but the Blackfish cared for his little brothers and that would have to be enough. Jon wondered what Brynden Tully thought of Bran's betrothal.

 “He loves her,” Arya said with a faint smile.

“Did he say as much?” Jon was curious.

“He need not had said a word,” said Arya. “The way he speaks of her in his letters, that told me all I needed to know.”

Jon had wondered at that. Meera was loyal and good; she had no airs or pretentions and as far as Jon could see, cared fiercely for Bran. She would make him a good wife, that was plain to see yet there were others who would object. The Neck was neither populous or wealthy and Greywater Watch was rich in soil, mushy leaves and brackish water but not much else. A marriage to the brave, pale-faced Meera Reed would be something Bran’s council would advise against.

Bran must have insisted. A burst of pride flared inside Jon. He always knew that his brother’s rule would be his own yet it made Jon glad to know that while he may be guided he would not let that influence surpass sense.

“We have time to prepare for the journey north,” said Jon sitting next to her. “But there was something else in his letter.”

“What is it?” she asked tersely. Always quick to worry.

“Fret not,” he enveloped her small hands in his. “Bran said that some northerners have taken insult that two of their princesses have gone south without daughters and granddaughters of their houses in their company.”

“Oh.” Arya said catching her lower lip between her teeth. “I had not thought.”

Truly, neither had Jon. Sansa had ladies from Tyrion's banners and some from her uncle’s lands but Arya had wrinkled her nose and decided against it when Sansa suggested she do the same. It seemed no more than unnecessary pomp to him but when one princess had ladies in waiting only from the South and the other not at all, well, he could see where it would seem a direct insult.

“Bran has suggested two ladies from noble northern houses so as not to overwhelm you,” Jon paused. “But if you do take them, then you need to choose a lady or two from the Riverlands and from Dragonstone.”

“I do not like it,” Arya sighed. “But you know there is nothing short of kingdom wide destruction that I would not do for your sake.”

“I know it,” Jon replied. “And I believe us evenly matched for I would let blood rain upon grass and stone if it meant your safety.”

“Just so,” she said. “But not without me at your side.”

Arya drew nearer and pressed her lips against his neck, a comfort, but it ignited a flame within him. She smiled as she drew back.

He traced her lower lip with his thumb, dragging it down, transfixed. She was saying something but Jon did not hear her, entranced by the lovely, pink pout of her mouth. Jon's lips wanted hers, on him, near him – he captured her mouth in a kiss, soft at first, lingering before drawing her deeper. Her mouth, hot and wet, they traded sweet kisses, his hand cupping her cheek.

Jon pulled away reluctantly, resisting the urge to tear their clothes off and see her bare form before him, to kiss every inch of her, to feel her breasts in his hands, still heavy with giving suck and to push into her slickness, filling her completely, feeling her tight heat around his member until he spilled his seed – there was time enough for that later, later.

He leaned his forehead against hers as his breath came heavily.

“I love you, little wolf.”

“And I you.”

**xx.**

“We’re almost there,” said Arya.

They had been travelling north for a moon now. They needed to keep an easy pace with little Lya and his retinue of guards, handmaidens and cooks, the freeriders that followed, knights and their retainers. It made him and Arya restless both. They had taken turns riding out of the wheelhouse. Ghost ran aside them when they rode but spent little time in the carriage with them.

Neither Arya or her direwolf were happy at the need for Nymeria to stay behind but the kennelmaster insisted given her condition.

“You are more excited than Lya,” said Jon teasingly.

Lyanna bounced in Arya’s arms. Her chubby cheeks were rosy from the walk they had taken earlier at a brief pause but the cold was strange for her. The vents under Dragonstone kept her warm all year long. She kept peering through the red curtains and babbling nonsensically. This must be a strange sort of place for her. For Jon it was the most familiar place in the world. In truth he was as excited as Arya.

“You should talk,” responded Arya tartly but her grin betrayed her pretence at offence.

A beatific glow held upon her cheeks and Jon smiled. She was a comfort, this wife of his, a perennial stream of clear water to wash away any taint. The nothingness of death had threatened to overwhelm him once before she returned to him all those years ago, head shaved and barely dressed for the winter but with light and determination writ across her face. Jon shuddered to think of what he would be if Arya did not come back to him when she did.

Arya would laugh to hear him say it, he knew. Her own darkness bubbled red beneath her skin. Jon wondered if she felt the same as him. If she saw him as a force that drew her light to the forefront when he could as he did her. He did not know. There were days when he thought he had plumbed the sum of her – of the woman she’d become, but there were always burgeoning new depths to be found. A new adventure and an old familiarity both.

Like Winterfell.

He saw the great castle ahead and his smile widened. The rebuilding had been well constructed. No longer was it a ruined castle. The burned walls had been rebuilt giving it a newer look than before. The portcullis was raised and the gates open. They were awaiting them.

Arya gave him Lyanna to hold after he stepped out of the carriage.

Arya grinned at their brothers. Bran in his chair looking at them with sparkling blue eyes and next to him ... next to him. _Robb!_ thought Jon, madly. He was struck still for a moment but only a moment. This boy’s face was leaner, he was taller than Robb had been and his hair wilder than Lady Catelyn would ever have allowed. A large, black direwolf sat at his side with feral, green eyes. _Rickon._ Truly the boy had grown.

Jon approached them with Arya at his side and their daughter in his arms. Arya bent to hug Bran warmly and she whispered something in his ear that made him grin.

“She has grown much indeed,” said Bran with a small smile.

“She has.” Arya agreed, proudly.

“Let me see her,” Rickon thrust his hands out at Jon. Arya laughed and Jon suppressed a smile in response.

“Rickon,” said Bran, chidingly.

Arya hugged their little brother and grinned as he wriggled out of her arms after a while and asked to see her sword – suddenly more interesting than a baby cousin.

Jon was relieved at his welcome.

Rickon's wonder at seeing all his brothers and sisters after all those years grew into rage when they had left Winterfell once more, leaving him with only Bran, once more. It took many steadily written letters to thaw the ice and coax him into warmness again.

 “You’ll see it later,” Jon said softly with a smile.

Rickon grinned and threw himself at Jon’s side, though he was careful not to disturb the curious baby.

It lightened Jon, being in the welcoming walls of Winterfell. The ghosts that lived here were well known to him. His blood. He supposed that too was true of Dragonstone. His grandmother died there, so did many of his ancestors, he could sometimes feel Rhaegar's melancholy spirit roaming the halls and King Aerys' mad and tortured one but Winterfell was different. Ser Rodrik, Robb, Father, Uncle Ben, Jory, Mikken; he had lived with them, known them, loved them. Their names did not fall from his lips like memorised histories but like lived ones.

“Prince Jon, we welcome you,” Bran proclaimed. “Winterfell is yours.”

Jon understood Bran’s silent hint that they truly get reacquainted when they were alone. Bran must be used to performing the courtesies necessary as a lord and prince by now though he had never expected to be either. Jon knew how that felt.

Next to his brothers stood the Blackfish, proud and tall, who gave Jon a cursory nod and Arya a warm smile as he welcomed them, Meera Reed and her father stood next to him, and then Lord Manderly. Jon held little Lya gently as they walked down the line, accepting greetings and compliments towards their daughter.

“You should go to the crypts,” said Bran after all the hands were shook and courtesies performed. “Pay your respects.”

Jon was grateful for the suggestion. He had thought about it the closer they arrived to the grey, granite castle he once called home. Seeing his mother and his uncle – father. He had spent not much time in the cold underground tomb that held the bones of the Kings of Winter and Lords of Winterfell when he had first returned. The wounds then were still raw. The salve of time had soothed them much and he would say his thanks.

The crypts were as dark as he remembered. Bran had torches lit in preparation of their arrival. His little brother knew they would want to pay their respects. Jon cradled little Lya gently in his arms as he walked down the winding, narrow steps. Arya was much more urgent than he. He could barely see her shadow dance in the glow of fire as she immediately made her way to the last two statues.

Jon had stopped just a little behind her. Lya shivered in front of the stone statue of Lyanna Stark but her eyes darted about, trying to find light. Jon wondered if she knew where she was. Impossible really. She was only a babe. A little thing. She knew naught of the ghosts of Winterfell, not even her namesake. Then again, to him, his mother’s ghost was the least familiar one.

In some ways he knew her. Or it felt as he did. Lord Reed had told him reverent stories, Bran had too. He saw her some days in Arya. Not so much on other days. Yet in some ways she was a mystery. A woman who loved him enough to fight death until his safety was promised, who was naive enough to run away with a prince who whispered false oaths, brave enough to don armour and fight for a friend’s honour, reckless enough to spurn her betrothed for the sake of freedom or love or fear, whichever caused her to believe the promises of a silver prince. _She had the wolf blood,_ Arya once said to him. _Wolves can’t ever be tamed._

He wondered if his little Lya would inherit her grandmother’s courage and her mother’s ferocity. He hoped she would have it. He hoped she would never have need of it.

“This is your grandmother,” Jon said to the bundle in his arms. His voice echoed off the stone walls. “Were it not for her, neither of us would have lived.”

Little Lya cooed at the stone statue of the same name and babbled out, _“Papa!”_ Jon whispered her name and a prayer of gratitude to the old gods before joining his wife.

“Father would have loved her,” said Arya after a moment’s silence, her tone wistful. There were tears in her eyes as she looked up at him.

“He would have,” Jon agreed. Though what Eddard Stark would have felt with regards to their marriage, Jon tried hard not to think of it.

Lyanna twitched irritably in his hands as Arya tucked her furs directly under her chin.

“She is tired,” she said, quietly.

“It was a long journey.” Jon reminded her.

Arya touched the arm of their father’s, his uncle’s statue before silently taking Lyanna from his arms and holding her on her hip.

Jon stood, staring at the stone face of Eddard Stark’s statue for a long moment. Silent. Still. Solemn. Neither of them made a movement for the longest while until Jon parted his lips and words started pouring out.

“Some days I wonder if you would be proud of me. I want you to be. I have done things without honour but I hope – I ...” _What did he hope? That his father would understand?_ “You did not father a bastard but you hid one. Treason some would have called it, but you sacrificed your loyalty for your king for family, for what is right ... for love. And I thank you for it.”

_Love is the death of duty, the bane of honour,_ Maester Aemon's words echoed in his ears, but his father’s life howled over the dragon’s whisper giving him different counsel. The old maester knew much but there were lessons on love that he had never learned. Love, Jon found, was the greatest duty and drove him to strive for honour; a different sort than Maester tried to guide him towards, not honour to the realm, he had served the Seven Kingdoms and spilt other men’s life’s blood and his own for it. A worthy sort of honour but not what he strove for any longer. The honour of his family and his people was what gave him purpose. Ensuring their safety and prosperity, it was his new goal and he could not think of a greater one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait. I made this chapter extra long as an apology. However I will be taking a little break before posting the fourth instalment of this series. I hope you all enjoyed this story so far.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll mention more about the war in the next chapters.


End file.
